Imatges de pàgina
PDF
EPUB

ter a fair lady alone and unprotected. Trust rather to the continued importunity of your noble mother. The Duchess has a persuasive speech, and the King a susceptible heart. Let us return to the Manor and hope that all will yet be well."

means

The lady turned round to retrace her steps in compliance with the advice of her attendant, when she found herself suddenly seized in the grasp of a man who had followed her unperceived, and who now, with very little ceremony, proceeded to overwhelm her with his embraces. The author of this outrage was by no one whose personal attractions could render the violence which he committed less unpalatable. He was a short and meagre figure, hump-backed, with legs of an unequal size, and teeth, or rather fangs, which protruded from his mouth, and gave an hideous expression to his face, which otherwise might have possibly been called handsome. His forehead was high and fair, his eyes black and sparkling, and his broad arched brows gave an expression of intelligence and dignity to the upper part of his countenance, which strangely contrasted with the grotesqueness and deformity of his figure. He was very richly habited in a robe of blue velvet, lined with silk, and glittering with gold-a sword hung by his side, and a cap, adorned with a plume of feathers, and a sparkling diamond in the front, was placed in rather a fantastic and foppish manner upon his head.

The lady shrieked fearfully when she found herself in the arms of this hideous being. "Silence, madam, silence." he said, " or," and he touched his dagger, while a cloud as black as midnight gathered on his brow, which, however, instantly gave place to a smile of even bewitching sweetness. "Pardon, pardon," he added; "that one used to war and strife should begin with menaces, even when addressing so fair a creature as thou art. "Unhand me, monster!" said the Lady Gray.

[ocr errors]

"Sweet lady," he said, " you must unheart me first."

66

"Désist," said a voice behind them, or, by Heaven! your heart shall rue the boldness of your hand."

With these words a young man habited in Lincoln green, with a bow and quiver slung qver his shoulders, and bearing a drawn sword in his hand, rushed upon the lady's assailant. He paused, however, as his eye encountered that of this . mis-shapen being-whether it was that he recognized a face familiar to him, or that he felt an emotion of surprise at the hideousness of the creature which he beheld was not apparent The latter eyed him

with a cullen and malignant smile, and then uttering a loud and discordant laugh, disappeared amidst the recesses of the forest.

Her

The Lady had sunk on the ground, exhausted and stupified with terror. deliverer hastened to raise her up, while the boy, whose bosom heaved with sobs, caught her hand and covered it with his kisses, and Adelaide sprinkled her pallid and death-like features with water from the river. When she once more opened her eyes, they rested upon a being very dissimilar from him in whose arms she had last found herself. The perfect grace and symmetry of his form was only equalled by the sweetness and noble expression of his features, which, save that the curl of his lip and the proud glance of his eye indicated something of a haughty and imperious temperament, approached as nearly as possible to the beau ideal of manly beauty. The simplicity and modesty of his dress were as strikingly opposed to the gorgeous apparel, as were his graces of form and feature to the ghastliness and deformity of his late opponent.

"Thanks, gentle Sir," said the Lady Gray, "thanks for thy timely aid."

"No thanks are due to me, sweet lady, but to thy fair self I owe unbounded thanks for an opportunity of gazing on so much loveliness. Yet must I be a petitioner for a further favour-permission to escort you home."

The lady accepted with gratitude the service which was proffered as a boon: and giving her hand to the graceful cavalier, she proceeded under his escort homewards, attended by the stripling and Adelaide. During this short journey, she had an opportunity of discovering that the elegant and accomplished form of her deliverer was but the mirror of his refined and cultivated mind. The wit, vivacity, knowledge of men and manners, originality of thought, and courteous and chivalrous demeanour which he evinced, were such, that, if they did not positively win the heart of the Lady Gray before this their first interview terminated, certainly laid the foundation of a passion, which, as the reader will subsequently learn, exercised a powerful influence over the destinies of both.

"And now, gentle Sir," said the lady, as they arrived at her residence, "welcome to Grafton Manor. Will you please to enter ?"

[ocr errors]

"Not now, sweet Madam!" answered the cavalier; I am in the King's train, and my services will be missed. Yet may I crave leave to call to-morrow, and inquire after the health of?" He paused, but the lady soon concluded his

sentence

"Of the Lady Gray of Groby," she said, extending her hand to him.

"Ha!" he said, and started, while a dark frown lowered for a moment over his fine features, "the widow of the Lancastrian knight who fell at St. Albans."

"Even_that ill-starred woman," said the Lady Gray, while the tears streamed down her features. "Farewell! farewell! I see that it is a name which is unpleasing to all ears.

66

[ocr errors]

Nay, nay, sweet Madam," said the youth, gently detaining her; "it is a name which friends and foes ought alike to honour as identified with manly and heroic devotion to a falling cause, and "his voice faltered as he added, in a softer tone, "with the perfection of female grace and loveliness, You have been a suppliant to the King, Madam, for the restoration of your dead Lord's forfeited estates."

"I have been," she replied, "and a most unhappy and unsuccessful one."

"The King, Madam, is surrounded by men who entertain small love for the unhappy adherents of the House of Lancaster. I have the honour to serve his Highness If Edward March, his poor Esquire, can advance the cause of the Lady Gray, small as may be his abilities to do her good, they shall be all devoted to her service."

"Thanks, once more a thousand thanks, generous Sir," said the Lady. "The cause of Elizabeth Gray indeed needs all the efforts of her friends to insure for it a prosperous issue. If Master Edward March can do aught to serve it, the blessing of the widow and the fatherless will rest upon his head."

"And the blessing of the widow," thought Master Edward March, after he had taken leave of the lady, and was retracing his steps to the river side, "will be the blessing of the prettiest woman in England. That of the fatherless I could e'en dispense with; yet, methinks, it is well that they are fatherless, Heaven rest their father's soul!"

This short interview caused a strange disturbance in the heart of Elizabeth Gray. The interests of her orphan children, and anxiety to obtain for them the restitution of their father's forfeited property, had for a long time occupied her mind exclusively. Now a new feeling, she would not venture to call it a passion, seemed at least to mingle with if not to absorb all other considerations. Yet even this came disguised in the garb of her children's interests, who, she now felt more than ever stood much in need of a protector to supply the place of their deceased parent. The mother of the Lady Gray

was Jaqueline of Luxembourg, the Dowager Duchess of Bedford, who had, after the death of her husband, so far sacrificed her ambition to love, that she espoused in second marriage Sir Edward Woodville, a private gentleman, to whom she bore several children; and among the rest Elizabeth, who was remarkable for the grace and beauty of her person, as well as for other amiable accomplishments. This young lady had married Sir John Gray, of Groby, by whom she had two sons; and her husband being slain in the second battle of St. Albans, fighting on the side of Lancaster, and his estate being for that reason confiscated, his widow had retired to live with her mother at her seat of Grafton, in Northamptonshire. The Duchess herself resided principally in London, as well for the purpose of leaving her daughter as much as possible in complete possession of Grafton Court, as to afford the Duchess, by her vicinity to the palace, opportunities for pressing upon the King the propriety of restoring to the widow of Sir John Gray the forfeited estates of her husband. These solicitations, however, had as yet been unavailing, and she was in daily expectation of hearing that the estates, which formed the subject of them, had been bestowed upon some adherent of the House of York.

Such was the posture of her affairs when the Lady Gray became acquainted with Edward March, in the manner which we have narrated. The young esquire called on her the next day, and their second interview confirmed in the bosoms of both the passion which had been excited by the first. March, in addition to his personal attractions, expressed so much anxiety for the interests of the lady and her children, and such a determination, as soon as the King returned to London, and was at leisure to attend to business, to press the fair widow's suit upon his attention, that the surrender which the lady made of her heart, seemed to her to be no less a matter of policy than affection. The youth was not slow in perceiving the impression which he had made on the susceptible bosom of Elizabeth; and one day, when the parties had scarcely been acquainted a month, he took like Othello "a pliant hour," poured into the lady's listening and not offended ear a confession of his passion, and made an offer of his hand and heart.

"Alas! good Master March," said she, "thou talkest idly. What hopes can a poor Esquire and the portionless widow of Sir John Gray have of future happiness, by uniting their forlorn fortunes together."

"I have a sword, Madam, which has

already done good service, and which, I doubt not, will, on the next field on which it is brandished, win for me the badge of knighthood."

"Or the grave of an esquire !" said the lady, mournfully.

But, Madam, trust to my persuasions and the King's goodness of heart for the restoration of your children's inheritance. Will you make your promise of sealing my happiness conditional upon that restoration?"

The youth's eye flashed fire as he put this question to the lady. Her colour came and went-her bosom rose and fell quickly; her heart beat within it tumultuously, and her whole frame trembled like an aspen tree as she paused a few moments before she answered this question, and then, sinking into his arms, exclaimed, "I will, I will! dearest Edward I am wholly thine."

"Now Heaven's richest blessings fall upon that fair head!" he said, imprinting a fervent kiss on her forehead. "The King departs for London on the morrow, and I must follow in his train. Trust me sweet Elizabeth, that thy suit shall not want the advocacy of any eloquence which I may possess, and I hope that when I next meet thee, it will be to clasp thee to my bosom as my bride."

The Lady Gray felt more desolate than ever at Grafton Manor after the departure of Edward March from its neighbourhood. She had intrusted him with a letter to the Duchess of Bedford, in which she had simply informed her that the bearer was a gentleman who hoped, from his situation near the person of the King, to be able to advance the successful progress of their suit to his Highness. To this letter she had received an answer, saying that it had been forwarded to her mother by Mr. March, but that he had not himself called upon the Duchess, nor had she received from him any intelligence as to the success of his efforts on the Lady Gray's behalf. Days and weeks rolled on, and the fair widow still remained in total uncertainty as to the state of her affairs, except that each letter which she received from her mother informed her that she found increasing difficulty in procuring interviews with the King, and that the monarch, at such interviews, appeared colder and more adverse than ever to the object for which they were sought.

Alas! alas!" said the Lady Gray; " will Fate never cease to persecute me? Even this last fond hope-reliance on the affection and on the efforts in my behalf, of this young man, has failed me. it was a wild and an idle hope, and Elizabeth Gray, who has seen so much of the

But

world, ought to have known how delusive are its brightest prospects, and how false its most solemn promises. Edward March has proved inconstant and untrue, and Elizabeth Gray must remain desolate and oppressed."

(To be continued.)

FALSEHOOD.

'Tis sad to weep beside the bier,

Where lies the lov'd one dead!

The pang is short that dries the tear
Which Nature kindly sped!
But oh! there is a wound we feel,
More painfully severe,

'Tis venom'd, past the pow'r to heal,
By Falsehood's deadly spear!

To give confiding up the heart
To one, who seemed to give

Another for it, was to part
With honey for the hive!
But oh! to find it emptied, and
Its sweets all stole away,
Is all at once to feel a pang,
Unknown before that day!

To fondly smile, and meet a frown ;--
To speak, and find the ear
Once bent in love, now careless thrown
Some other voice to hear;-
To look upon the once kind eye,

And find it coldly rove ;-
To feel the hope, once cherished, die;—
Are sorrows-speech above!

Oh! surely 'twas not woman's soul,
That dared so cruel be;
Oh! Pity should have more controul
There, than such guile to see :-

Alas! alas! 'twas woman's deed,

And she the loveliest too!The Muses from the dark thought speed; And bid the theme adieu !

R. JARMAN:

MORETTI, THE TOE ARTIST,
(A Street Circular.)

His frame supported by his knees,
He's sitting on a stool,
He casts his features to the ground,
And earns his bread by rule:
Of all the circulars in town,
Moretti's not of least renown.

A sheet of paper and a brush,
Two colours, red and green,
Are on his palette for his board

To keep his morceau clean,
And by the workings of his toes,
He paints till he has made a Rose.

'Who'll buy the rose? a penny each!
He holds it up and cries:
Strange that a foot of five nails length,
His loss of arms supplies:
But Nature for the artist feels,
And makes him handy with his heels.

[blocks in formation]

Recollections of Books and their Authors.-No. 4.

THE AUTHOR OF "JOHN
BUNCLE."

AMONG the most acute of the many thorns which gall the feet of him who plods along the bye-paths, and even of him who boldly travels the broad roads to fame, and which make the literary adventurer half repent that he ever set out on so perilous a pilgrimage, must be the recollection, that, of many of the greatest and some of the most erratic of men who are included in the long line of English geniuses, scarcely more is known than serves to give an edge to the appetite of the curious, but denies them the banquet they desire.

[ocr errors]

Much learned ink has been dribbled away in authenticating the rank and condition of Chaucer, him who held the key of" the well of pure English undefiled," and what has been proved after all?-that he was a franklin,' '—a rank equivalent to that of gentleman' in these days! And who that has read his Romaunts, made beautiful with delineations of manners which were not those of his period, rude as they may now be considered, but rather those of centuries unborn,-who that has discerned and admired his almost prophetic perception of the coming millenium of more gentle manners,-who that has listened to his yearnings after the reigns of reason and right, goodness and gentleness, could believe him to be less than a gentleman? He is said to have well cudgelled a friar in Fleet Street;

and he certainly belaboured his bre thren somewhat roughly with his poetic quarter-staff in his works; all else that is surmised of his personal history is "hemmed in with saucy doubts, and fears."

cer

The next greatest name in the list of the illustrious who followed him is Kit Marlowe, the precursor-star of a greater genius. Some who believe in his existence as Marlow, have assassinated him in a drunken brawl with a bully, as to the right of proprietorship in a punk; whilst others have merged him into that sea of immensity Shakspeare, (who has tainly, like the Leviathan of another water, swallowed up whole shoals of Marlows, as if they had been minnows,) roundly asserting, and believing too, that Kit was no other than Will. Shakspeare in a domino. It is true, that the one star had just set in the west as the other rose in the east, but whether the first star was identical with the last, even the Newtons, who have interpreted the intellectual firmament, and measured the distances between one literary orb and another have left us in the dark. Of Shakspeare, too, how little more than nothing is ascertained. We know that he lived, and that he died, and that his "works," which were not intended to "follow him," still live, and will, perhaps, never die; the bark that bears this vast venture of our knowledge of him is then bound in "shoals and shallows," which it shall as soon pass over as time get the start of eternity. Dr. Drake, who had gathered together all the few doubtful facts which are known of him, was forced, from the paucity of his materials, to illustrate rather the day in which he lived than the poet himself, which is about as germane to the matter, as if, in illustrating the solar system, we gave the life and times of twelve o'clock in the day.

Of Spenser, who came between these two kindred stars, Marlow and Shakspeare, we learn from his own pen only, that, after flattering and gilding the great ones of his day with praises which must have dyed his cheek with blushes for their fulsomeness, he was, notwithstanding, poor and neglected, and, it is supposed, died as much darkened by the clouds of misfortune as he had lived: and this, which is all that is known of him, is by no means well authenticated, and is rather inferred from that eloquent stanza, in which he has so pathetically painted the miseries of dependency, than from any facts which are to be gathered of his personal history. Indeed, his suc cesses and his disappointments are equally doubtful, the only instance related of any

thing like a liberal reward having been rendered to his merit, (that of the patronage of Sir Philip Sidney, who as he read verse after verse of his "Faërie Queene," sent hundreds after hundreds of pounds to reward his " high emprise") even this poor compliment is considered by his latest biographer* to be a very apocryphal sort of story.

We might stretch out this long line of the neglected and the little known of great names" to the crack of doom;" but we forbear, and descend abruptly to the author of "John Buncle," a writer who deserves to rank next to John Bunyan for spiritual romanticism.

"The Life of John Buncle" is perhaps the most singular romance that this or any country has produced. It is a work full of the most strange contradictions and impossibilities; it abounds with portraits of mental beings, such as no one ever met with, and, what is more, would scarcely wish to meet with. Each of his heroes and heroines is the very perfection of individuality. The gentlemen are old, interesting, and without heirs male, and (as elderly gentlemen should do) die like good Christians in the very nick of time at which they are required to die,for the interests of the hero and his tale. The ladies expire in child-bed of young Buncles, before their doting husband, our hero, has ceased to dote; he bewails their loss with a becoming quantity of tears and a due proportion of pocket handkerchiefs; in two or three days dries his eyes, orders his horse, leaps into his stirrups, and after travelling a few miles, is attracted by some beautiful mansion in some more beautiful situation; rides up to it, hangs his horse on any indifferent hook which happens to be at hand-introduces himself to mine host, who is hospitable enough to entertain both man and horse-finds him to be old and a widower, with a lovely daughter; the father is all perfection, the lady rather more; John then measures the old gentleman's foot-fits him to a hair;-next he takes measure of the lady's -fits her also to a nicety; the old gentleman then dies, but, before he departs this world, begs him, as a dear, considerate friend, to take his daughter; John then falls into a critical comparison of the intended Mrs. Buncle the third, with the deceased Mesdames Buncle the first and second, and discovers that she is still a nearer approach to perfectibility than the previous most perfect ladies of their kind, marries her off-hand, in nine months another young Buncle becomes payable,

+ Dr. Aikin.

when she, tou, dies, and after the usual lachrymatory eye-offerings, he remounts his horse, with many philosophical reflec. tions upon those two important things in life this and that, comes to another pleasant haunt, where some new Cynthia lives in a forlorn state of single-blessedness, he soon discovers that she has no extreme objection to herself and chosen friend living together as one, he marries her, and all that; she dies in proper time-is still more perfect than her most perfect predecessors-but still he does not despair; on the contrary, he looks out for Mrs. Buncle the fifth, and so he goes on to the end of his adventures, which are impossible to be laid down when you have once entered into them, and equally impossible to be read without wondering at the heterogeneous mixture of passion with philosophy, of common place incidents mingled with the marvellous,-of the knowledge and no-knowledge it exhibits of mankind, and the medley of rational piety and religious puppyism. One might almost imagine that it had been meant as a travestie of Rousseau's fantastic philosophy and superfine amorous fooleries, but that it is throughout made the vehicle of serious discussions of points of faith, in which John engages tooth and nail with the various Mrs. Buncles of his adventures, who are all and severally equally well-grounded in theological matters, and able to cope with metaphy sical John himself, and break his head with his own weapons; John, however, is never without resources; if he fails in conquering their heads he is sure to van quish their hearts, so that he is always triumphant, one way or the other.

We have rhodomontaded thus far on the work-now to speak of its author, Miss Hawkins lets us a little into his character, and shews him to have been indeed a very sensible one—a genius more partial to the pudding than to the praise of his profession.

6

"A winter-evening visitor to my father, (Sir John Hawkins,) when in London," says that pleasant, gossiping old lady, was a little, scarlet-faced Anabaptist, divine, of the name of Bulkley;" for whom, on account of some great conscientious sacrifice, which I cannot recal to my memory, he had a kind respect. He had written The Life of John Buncle,' a work of fiction, intended to give basis to discussions of points of faith and moral philosophy: as far as I could then judge, he appeared to be a warm disputant, without the smallest acrimony. My father would shake his head with a smile when Bulkley maintained what he could not admit; and Bulkley would laugh

« AnteriorContinua »